Dangling by a Thread

by Lea Wait

  “Add them to the flowers on the mantel,” said Dave. “Where I see there already are flowers.”

  “No one can have too many flowers,” I said. “They’re just from the floral department at the grocery, but they brighten up the place.”

  “They do. And you got food, too?”

  “Ice cream, no Jell-O, and an assortment of other easy-to-prepare sandwich and breakfast foods,” I said.

  He’d sunk down on the bed.

  “Don’t worry about looking until you want something. I put the food I bought in the refrigerator or on your counter so you could find it easily.” Dave was meticulous about keeping his home neat. He’d want to arrange everything his own way. “And Gram will be by in a couple of hours to bring you dinner. The Ladies’ Guild at the church is supplying your dinners for at least the next week. Longer, if you need them. Gram’ll talk to you about that. If there’s something you can’t eat, or don’t like, tell her, and she’ll pass the word along.”

  “That’s not all necessary,” said Dave. He winced in pain. “But I’ll admit it’s appreciated. I guess I’ll have to attend church more often once I get myself more together. You and Charlotte are miracle workers.” He stretched his leg out on the bed. “The doctor says I’ll be able to drive after I’m off the pills, but that will be a few days. Up to a week, he said. I’m taking fewer now, but especially when I’m moving around, my leg really hurts. I have to admit: Jesse got me good.”

  “I’m going to let you rest,” I said. “But call me if you need anything. Anything at all. I’m only a couple of blocks away. I put clean clothes on the dining-room table—but if I’ve forgotten something, let me know.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Just relieved to be out of that hospital. I suspect I’m going to sleep a lot in the next few days. With all the bustling about, hospitals aren’t the best place to rest. I’m exhausted.”

  “I’m leaving right now,” I said. “Gram should be here about five o’clock with your dinner. And I think she’s going to ask you whether you’re ready for feline company.”

  “Kittens? I thought you’d already solved that problem.”

  “Kitten. Singular. Trixi and Bette have found homes,” I assured him. “But the white kitten has been with Gram, and Juno, her older cat, isn’t happy about that. So—you can decide. And you could say you’d like the kitten, but not for a few days.”

  “I really appreciate all of this.”

  “Remember to call if you need anything. I don’t want to call and wake you when you’re trying to rest,” I said. “And for now, is it okay if I leave your front door closed but not locked? That way you won’t have to get out of bed when Gram gets here.”

  “That’s fine,” Dave said, his voice a little lower. “I think I will take a nap now.”

  I headed home to check on Trixi. I hadn’t been there to play with her for hours. Was I a bad cat parent? Probably. But she wasn’t a perfect cat, I reminded myself, picking up pieces of tissue I found all over the living-room floor. We’d have to cope with each other.

  After cleaning the mess, I called Gram.

  “Gram? Dave’s at home. I told him you’d be coming over tonight with his dinner. I left his front door unlocked.”

  “Thank you, dear. I’m going to take him my chicken noodle soup tonight, and I’ll heat some French bread when I’m there.”

  “That sounds fine. He says he’s tired. How’s it going with finding people to bring him food for the next week?”

  “Not a problem. In fact, I was surprised—I called Carole Fitch to see how she was, and she volunteered to take him a meal tomorrow.”

  “She’s feeling better, then? I saw her over at the Wests’ yesterday and she seemed a little weak.”

  “But she was out of her house. Good for her. She must be feeling better. I was wondering when we should put her family on the dinner list.”

  “Which day am I assigned?”

  “I’m taking tonight, and Carole has tomorrow, so if it’s okay, you can do the day after.”

  “No problem. If you think of anything else I can do for Dave after you see him later today, let me know, all right?”

  “I will.”

  A busy day. But Dave was home, his dinners were (thanks to Gram) arranged. And I had a few hours off. What would I take on my night to bring food? Fried haddock, I decided. I’d finally mastered the art of panfrying using panko instead of cracker crumbs. And peas and potato salad. Easy.

  I rolled an empty spool toward Trixi. She jumped on it and somersaulted over. I laughed at her, to her embarrassment. I hadn’t laughed a lot recently.

  I rolled the spool again, this time more gently.

  Then my phone rang.

  “Angie? Patrick. Thought you’d want to know. Simon’s staying in Haven Harbor a few more days.”

  “I’d thought he went back to Chicago yesterday.”

  “He was planning to. But his lawyer looked over Jesse’s will and the deed to the island. Their grandfather left it to them with the right of survivorship. That means they owned the island together, as they both said. But if one died, the island had to revert to the other party. It doesn’t even have to go to probate. In other words . . .”

  “In other words, Jesse couldn’t leave his half of the island to Dave.”

  “That’s what the lawyer said.”

  “That means—no safe nesting site for the cormorants.”

  “Unless someone tests the deed.”

  “What?”

  “When I was at Mom’s house this morning I overheard Jed and Uncle Gerry and Simon and this lawyer arguing. Jed Fitch said Simon had the right to sell the island, so he and Uncle Gerry should sign the contract he’d drawn up. At first Uncle Gerry and Simon seemed pleased. But this other guy—this lawyer—said not to get too excited. That Dave had the right to contest Jesse’s will. That might not change the outcome, but it would delay any sale. Possibly for years.”

  “So—we need to tell Dave. He needs to get to his lawyer about that, fast, right?”

  “That’s the idea. Because Uncle Gerry is already hesitating about this whole deal. His wife is pushing him to fly back to California before the baby is born, and I heard him say he loves the island, but he doesn’t want to be held up in court for years. He’ll look for somewhere else to buy—maybe in Oregon. Mom said he was always welcome to stay at Aurora if he wanted to visit Maine.”

  “Wow. Great. Do they know you’re calling me?”

  “No way. They only know I was concerned about the birds. I wanted you to know as quickly as possible. I don’t know your friend Dave. I didn’t want to call him out of the blue.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “He’s at home resting. But I’ll let him know.”

  “Between you and me, I think if he even threatens to contest the will, Uncle Gerry will back off.”

  “Simon must be frustrated,” I said.

  “And you should have seen Jed Fitch! He kept saying something would work out, or he could find Uncle Gerry another island. A better island. That’s when Uncle Gerry said he’d had it with islands. It had been fun to think about living out there, but he didn’t think it would work.”

  “What a relief!”

  “Don’t call off the Save the Cormorants campaign, though. Not yet. Simon hadn’t thought about that island in years, and now he thinks it’s worth a lot of money. Jed was telling him they might find another buyer.”

  “I doubt it. Unless a conservation organization—the Island Institute, or the Audubon Society or the Nature Conservancy—could get someone to donate enough money to keep it open for the birds,” I said. “Not many people are like your uncle Gerry and have the money to consider putting a home out there. You never saw where Jesse lived. It wasn’t a place most people would find habitable.”

  “I hope I’m right,” said Patrick.

  “I do, too. And I’ll let Dave know. I don’t see any reason why he wouldn’t contest the will. He wanted the island to be left the way Jesse wanted it.�
��

  I started to call Dave and then decided I’d wait until morning. He was exhausted. He needed to rest. And it was already the middle of the afternoon. He could call his lawyer in the morning. A few hours wouldn’t make a difference.

  At least, I hoped it wouldn’t.

  Chapter 46

  “Where shall the child of sorrow find a place for calm repose?

  Thou Father of the Fatherless, pity the orphan’s woes.

  What friend have I in heaven or earth, What friend to trust but thee.

  My father’s dead, My mother’s dead, My God, remember me.

  Thy gracious promise now fulfilled and bid my troubles cease

  In thee the fatherless shall find both mercy grace and peace.”

  —Narcissa Lyman, born in 1813, stitched this sampler on linsey-woolsey in 1827. The poem had been published in 1826. Narcissa and her brother, William, were orphaned by the deaths of her parents in 1821 and 1822, and William died a few weeks after she completed this sampler. She added his name and date of death. Narcissa attended school in Portland, Maine, and married a Congregational minister in York in 1832.

  Monday night I tried to read a book on the history of needlepoint (Betty Ring’s Girlhood Embroidery) but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about Jesse. The legal issues surrounding King’s Island might be complicated, but for the first time I felt as though there might be hope we could at least delay the sale of the island. By buying time, we’d also increase the possibility that one of the conservation groups—Audubon or another—would be able to raise enough money to buy the island and support it.

  Not easy, but possible.

  But who’d killed Jesse?

  A few days before I’d made a mental list. Tonight I got out pad and pencil. I knew more than I had earlier. But did I know enough?

  The key must be something that happened last Thursday afternoon.

  Thursday morning Jesse had been nervous and worried. He’d mistakenly shot Dave. But he hadn’t seemed incompetent—I hated that word—and he hadn’t seemed crazy. Stubborn, yes. And concerned that he’d shot Dave. In fact, he was angrier when we left King’s Island than he’d been before we’d gotten there. Angry at himself. He hadn’t meant to shoot Dave.

  Would he have tried to shoot someone else?

  But when Joe and Pete and I found his body the next morning his bow and arrows weren’t with him; they were safely stowed in his shelter.

  Okay. Whoever killed him had been on King’s Island between three and nine p.m. that Thursday.

  Who’d been there? Why? Who’d had a motive to kill Jesse?

  Simon Lockhart. He wanted to sell the island. He’d been out on King’s Island Thursday afternoon, and he’d said he’d argued with Jesse. They didn’t agree on selling the island. Simon had said Jesse was alive when he left the island. Had he lied? Possibly.

  At the same time, Gerry Bentley was on the island. He’d given Simon a ride, and he’d been walking around by himself (Simon hadn’t said anyone else had gone out with them) while Simon talked with Jesse.

  Had he talked with Jesse alone? Not likely, since Simon was there and Simon had a connection with Jesse. Gerry and Simon both wanted the same thing: Jesse to agree to sell King’s Island.

  When Dave had been shot, I’d ended up covered with his blood. Jesse’d been killed by several sharp blows to his head. His murderer would have to have been close to him. Had Jesse fought back? I didn’t remember seeing any defensive wounds on his hands, and Pete hadn’t mentioned them. Wouldn’t he have fought back? He was a strong man. And head wounds bled a lot. Anyone who’d killed Jesse by bashing in his head had to have blood on his hands, or face, and certainly on his clothing.

  If Simon had been covered with blood when he walked out of the woods to meet Gerry Bentley for their trip back to Haven Harbor, Bentley would have noticed.

  So—who else would have been on that island?

  Arvin and Rob said Jed Fitch borrowed the Little Lady Thursday afternoon, probably to take pictures for his real estate business. But was that what he’d done? His son Linc was with him. Maybe I should talk to Linc. Or ask Jed straight out whether he’d gone back to King’s Island to try to convince Jesse to sell.

  That made sense. Jed’s wife was ill and his sons needed tuition money. He’d made it clear he’d really wanted that commission.

  If he’d been covered with blood, would his son have kept quiet?

  I didn’t know Linc, but that seemed possible.

  It all made sense. Jed was the killer.

  Except . . . Jesse knew who Jed was. He’d told him not to come back to the island. Would he have welcomed him without a weapon a few days later?

  Or had Jesse been so upset about shooting Dave he didn’t trust himself not to hurt anyone else? Dave kept saying Jesse’d wanted peace, for himself and for his birds.

  Ultimately, last Thursday afternoon he’d found peace. But not the kind he’d wanted.

  Chapter 47

  “And must this body die

  This mortal frame decay

  And must these active limbs of mine

  Lie mouldering in the clay.”

  —Stitched by Elizabeth Cooke Crittenton, age twelve, in 1818, in Wethersfield, Connecticut. Elizabeth’s sampler included a garland border on the top, two houses shaded by trees on a riverside, boats on the river, and a hill on the far side of the river.

  “I slept better last night, but my leg still throbs.”

  Dave’s voice was in my “missed messages” Tuesday morning. He’d called a little after four in the morning.

  “Thanks again for all the food in the kitchen. I just cooked a batch of ham and eggs. Best thing I’d had to eat in days, except for your grandmother’s chicken soup last night. I’m going to take an extra Vicodin now, so I’ll sleep in a little. Would you let the others—Anna, Charlotte, Ruth, and Sarah—know the Save the Cormorants meeting will be today at two? I could text everyone, but I need to sleep.”

  I could do that. I’d hoped Dave would be feeling better once he was home, but being by himself in that house wasn’t a good idea. He was on Vicodin and cooking in the middle of the night?

  It was eight fifteen. I’d call the cormorant team and then check with Dave to make sure he was all right this morning.

  “I’m glad Dave is out of the hospital, but I can’t get to a two o’clock meeting,” said Sarah. “I want to share Ted Lawrence’s cormorant designs with everyone, though. Could I drop them off with Dave before my shop opens this morning? I was about to go out for a walk anyway. Once in a while I like to get out into the world. Sitting inside all summer isn’t my favorite part of having a shop.”

  “He wanted to sleep in this morning. Why don’t you leave the sketches in his mailbox? I’m going over to see him later this morning and I’ll check the mailbox before his regular mail is delivered.”

  “Thanks. Be sure to tell Dave I’m thinking about him, but I’m tied to my store this time of year.”

  “I’ll tell him. But I’m sure he understands,” I assured her.

  Anna and Ruth agreed to be at the meeting.

  So did Gram. “How was he last night when you took him dinner?” I asked Gram.

  “Hungry,” she answered. “He ate two bowls of chicken noodle soup and half a loaf of French bread. They must have starved him in the hospital.”

  “He doesn’t like Jell-O.”

  “That explains why he was hungry.” I could hear the smile in Gram’s voice. “I’ll see you at two o’-clock. Dave’s going to be tired for a while. We should keep the meeting short. Carole’s going to bring him dinner tonight. Our meeting should be over before then.”

  “Agreed. I got a message from him this morning. He was cooking ham and eggs at four this morning.”

  “Still hungry?” Gram asked. “Or bored. Or both.”

  “He said he couldn’t sleep because of the pain.”

  “Let’s hope he’s feeling better today.”

  “Are you going to br
ing Snowy this afternoon?”

  “No. We decided to wait until Dave’s a little more mobile. He’s having difficulty getting around on those crutches, and he’s afraid the kitten will get in trouble and he won’t be able to rescue him.”

  “You don’t mind keeping Snowy a few more days?”

  “Not at all. I’ll see you at two.”

  I took care of Trixi and scrambled an egg for my own breakfast.

  I hadn’t had any late-night inspirations about who might be Jesse’s killer, although I wished I could talk with Jed’s son Linc. He’d know whether or not his father had been on King’s Island last Thursday.

  But Linc was probably out working on one of the lobster boats now.

  Had anyone questioned him?

  I decided to ask Pete.

  “Morning, Angie,” he answered. “Heard Dave was out of the hospital.”

  “He is,” I said. “I’m going to see him later this morning. I know you can’t say a lot, but are you and Ethan any closer to figuring out who killed Jesse? Not knowing is driving me crazy—and it’s not easy for Dave, either.”

  “We’re still working on it,” said Pete. “Not a lot of information. The crime scene didn’t help at all because of the heavy rains last Friday.”

  “Have you or Ethan spoken with Linc Fitch?”

  “Linc? No. Should we have?”

  “Yesterday Arvin Fraser told me Jed and Linc borrowed the Little Lady Thursday afternoon. He assumed they did that to take pictures of real estate from the water. But Jed had already been to King’s Island once last week. I wondered if he’d made another stop.”

  “Good point.”

  “Simon Lockhart told me he’d talked with Jesse Thursday afternoon. Gerry Bentley took him out to the island. But Simon insists Jesse was alive when they left.”

  “We questioned both Simon and Bentley, and the crew of Bentley’s yacht. Their story seems to fit when the crew saw them leave and return.”

  If either of them had been bloodstained, someone might have mentioned that to the police. I hoped.